


Most Of The Time

by pawsdash



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Anorexia, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Happy Ending, Ice Cream, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mental Health Issues, Recovery, mental illness recovery, mention of pill abuse, mention of self-harm, muds is crying, this made me happy to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 17:34:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14141052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pawsdash/pseuds/pawsdash
Summary: Recovery is a bitch.





	Most Of The Time

**Author's Note:**

> This made me so happy to write- also, I kinda word-vomited it out. Just like the disclaimer on my previous post, this is written from personal experience of eating disorder recovery and what I kind of picture to have been going on in the life of someone who is their caretaker. Most of my posts have been pretty angsty so I decided to make one that was a bit more hopeful. I know it's short, but I hope you like!
> 
> (For the trigger warnings, there are mentions of hiding pills and knives from Stuart during recovery. Mention of diet pills and brief implied alcohol abuse. Surrounds the topic of eating disorders so if that topic triggers you, be aware of that. Ends happy though!)

Recovery was a bitch. It was exhausting and terrifying, even gut-wrenchingly painful at times. There were always bottles of pills to hide, sharp objects to stow away in the dark corners of Murdoc’s closet where Stuart wouldn’t find them- hopefully. Murdoc would find himself biting his nails subconsciously. He’d begun to lose sleep, finding that he would lie awake simply watching Stuart breathe because, _thank god he’s alive._ Recovery was terrifying- but some days were good.

There were a few days which Murdoc could recall as being some of the darkest days; for example, when he’d discovered a bottle of half-empty diet pills while trying to find a sweater in Stuart’s closet. He could describe in detail the knot in his throat, the sinking in his stomach. Days, weeks of practically force-feeding Stuart had been going down the drain and he hadn't even known it. That night, he drank an entire bottle of brandy and shredded their phone book. 

Because of how little he slept during Stuart’s recovery, he was prone to emotions which he hadn’t felt in years and would usually seem completely out of character for him- feelings other than anger and panic and jealousy. There were days in which he cried in the shower or in the bathroom or getting his clothes on in the morning. They were tears of self-loathing, of exhaustion. But this time, he was crying for a completely different reason.

His baby was sitting there at the dinner table, chattering about some movie that he’d like to see. His hair stuck up in wild tufts, the sun in the window behind him lighting up the flyaways in a halo. Noodle sat beside him, clad in a fluffy blue sweater and swinging her legs idly from the tall chair. They both had bowls of ice cream in front of them and Stuart was _eating_ it. He was smiling, laughing, he was _eating._ Murdoc felt as though he had gotten the wind kicked from his lungs, frozen in the hallway as he watched on. He almost questioned whether he was sleeping; these “good” days were very few and far between. He pinched himself. He felt a sting. 

“Hey!” Noodle called out as she noticed him, waving excitedly. Her eyes held a knowing look, almost as if to nonverbally indicate to him, _look at what I did! Look at what_ he _did._

He couldn’t help but echo the same thoughts because look at what Stuart had done! The blue-haired boy turned so that he could also face his lover, smiling gleefully. “ ‘ey Muds! We’re jus’ talking about that new ‘orror movie,” he announced. He was almost unaware of the food in front of him. Were the meds starting to work? Had Stuart regained some of his strength? His head began to buzz with excited, relieved thoughts. Maybe he really _was_ getting better.

Murdoc yawned- well, he fake-yawned. He did so because his vision was becoming blurry and he could feel a warmness on his cheeks, dripping down to his chin so quickly that he barely felt it at all. Before he was even completely aware, he was cupping his face in his hands and rubbing the wet streaks from his skin as subtly as he could. When he removed his hands again, he returned their gazes, straightening up as he recovered from his faked sleepiness. 

“Are you?” He replied, sniffing and making his way toward the kitchen where two empty bowls and the pail of ice cream sat on the counter. He took his time in scooping some more out, regaining his composure. He would cry later. He couldn’t now, couldn’t jeopardize this moment. 

Murdoc turned around, his own bowl of ice cream held tightly in his hands, and gravitated toward the two, toward the sunlight that shone in through the window and cast a glow upon their faces. He pulled up a chair. 

Recovery was a bitch- most of the time.

 


End file.
